Silence and leaves
by X5thAvenueX
Summary: He does not wish for death any more than he wishes for life. He does not long for them any more than he longs for himself.


**Silence, leaves, and other things that are golden and rotting**

This is the actual title, but it wouldn't fit, so I had to shorten it to "**Silence and leaves**".

He does not wish for death any more than he wishes for life. He does not long for them any more than he longs for himself.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.

Random and short oneshot about Gibbs.

* * *

He meets a woman one day after work.  
She has red hair, long and flowing and her eyes seem to sparkle, somehow.  
One day soon he will be forced to acknowledge that this has become his own cliché.

A week later he finds himself eating dinner with her.  
The restaurant is extravagant and so is her dress.  
His tux is worn.  
Candles flicker in time with music and they drink wine like it is water.  
This will never be enough, he thinks, as he kisses her goodnight.

He dreams that she is dead, later_._  
That she is dead and maybe he is too.  
He dreams that she is bleeding silently, and she dies surrounded by crisp, warm snow.  
The sun is shining when he wakes, and he is not screaming.

This is not where it all began, not where it will end.  
It is just contents; easy to process and hard to pull to pieces.  
It does not stop him from trying.

He is angry, sometimes.  
Other times he is merely existence; he is life or so he is told.  
Abby's hair is black and sometimes she smells like when Kate died, and this fact becomes more irrelevant with each day that passes.  
Tony carries the familiar scent of divorce, McGee of possibilities and insecurities that Gibbs refuses to feel, and Ziva of the retribution that he denies himself.  
He teaches them the rules and can only hope that they will know when not to use them.  
Mistakes become much more heartbreaking when they are repeated.

So back to where we left them; Gibbs and the woman who for the purpose of this will have no name and no face.  
It will not make a difference.  
She is not tainted by him yet, but will learn to be in time.  
Or maybe this one will kill him before he can kill her.  
He waits almost impatiently for it.

Their first time in bed will be vapid for both of them.  
He will not be disappointed with her, only with how routine this has become, and her only at the fact that he will not meet her eyes and the creaking of his bed seems almost to pain him.  
In the morning, over burnt eggs and stale toast - because Gibbs has no need for home cooked food and stocked up shelves - she will wonder just what is behind that basement door.

The bullet flies past his head, inches away, and he fires his own in retaliation.  
This is not fear, that he is feeling, it is an aching want and without it he would not know where to stand.  
He points his gun with ease and accuracy and Tony and McGee are still biting back questions, even as their own weapons fire.

He finds himself with her again, that night, after the vest and shell casings are gone and he is empty and longing for more.  
He almost calls her Shannon, but not quite, and remarks to himself that this is getting old fast.

There is a grave that he visits often, and he forgot a long time ago who exactly lies beneath the dirt here.  
It doesn't matter, though, not really and not ever, because he has not lost everything yet, and because maybe he never even knew to begin with.  
He will cling to what he has because drowning men do not let go and they do not regret it until they are back on dry land.  
And Gibbs is not even close.

There is a case file on his desk, and coffee in his hand.  
It is 0600 and he is not at all tired.  
He gave up on being tired a long time ago.  
Gave it up along with other emotions and feelings and words and memories; locked in a box that doesn't have a key for him to throw away.

There is a voice, now. In his head and on the wind and it whispers a scream to him.  
It may be Shannon or even Kelly and it could just be Jenny.  
He recites the rules in his sleep, and ends at the beginning always; round in circles and linear in proportion to the earth.  
Angles hard and soft and lips so red he swears that they are bleeding.

Back to the woman; to her, to them, to the gaping hole she stares sadly at_,_ realising she is far too small to try to fill.  
She is sitting on his sofa now; lips moving and words he is all too accustomed to leaving her mouth.  
She may mention silence and work, her loneliness and his lack-of-want, or she may just smile softly and shake her head.  
She leaves him clutching a bottle of bourbon and searching his tongue for an apology.

His house is wooden, his boat metal, his tyres burnt and his hands steady.  
The real tragedy is not in here; not in the words or even in the spaces between them. It is somewhere else, watching and rotting away, buried beneath water and golden, crunching leaves.  
He has so many years left to live, and this feeling in his chest has only just begun.  
Nothing is for ever, except maybe for this.

* * *

Please review!


End file.
